The End of It All
by athermiac
Summary: Five years after graduation, ignore HBP. Harry is mouning Sirius' death and suffering through Voldermort's death that wasn't his doing, but recovering with the help of an unlikely friend. HD. Other pairings include TR and HRR.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter belongs to Warner Bros, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Heyday/1498 films, JK Rowling and Raincoat books.**

**Summary: Harry, sunken into mourning for Sirius, cannot seem to escape the horrible guilty pain of so many deaths. Voldermort's whereabouts are unknown, until the unexplained actions of Lucius Malfoy and the mysterious death of the Dark Lord arouses even more questions. In his quest to have all questions answered, Harry gains love and condolence with the one person he least expected. Five years after graduating, ignore HBP.**

_Do not stand at my grave and weep _

_I am not there, I do not sleep_

_I am a thousand winds that blow_

_I am the diamond glints on snow  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain_

_I am the gentle autumn rain _

_When you wake in the morning hush_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circled flight_

_I'm the softest stars that shine at night_

_Do not stand at my grave and cry_

_I am not there, I did not die_

Chapter 1

The fire was burning low again, the embers were cackling resignedly, imploring to be extinguished. Their slight life was mirrored in the round panes of glass shielding the deepened, bagged eyes of the hero. The flames flickered and threatened to die when Harry's tired lips echoed a word in a voice that sounded as though it hadn't been used in ages.

"Kreacher!"

Sitting in the archaic wooden chair before the hearth, the hero watched the ragged house-elf enter the room and begin to stroke the fire. The house-elf refused to lay eyes on Harry; muttering nonsense under his breath, he retreated from the room again.

The fireplace was alive with life once more, but Harry was somehow impenetrable to its heat. Though the fire was so hot and he was so close to it, it refused to warm him and this made Harry so furious he couldn't move. The ice binding his heart refused to melt and when ice is broken, all is broken. Harry was miserable as hell in his ice cube and it infuriated him to tears that he wouldn't melt and he wouldn't break. As he stared with such concentration into the blaze, visions of past mistakes took over.

"… It wasn't your fault, Harry…"

"… Don't beat yourself up about it, Harry…"

"… Don't dwell on the past, Harry…"

But it was impossible for him to not dwell on the past because at one point, the past was really the present and the present was now. And because of one stupid, idiotic mistake in that present, because of one foolish moment of wanting so badly to 'play the hero' in that now, he'd ruined his past, present, and future. It was his fault. He had to beat himself up about it. He had to dwell on the past. He just kept loosing this game. Everytime he gained something, he lost two more of what he cherished and held dear to him.

Why couldn't it have been him? All those times, with him mum and dad, with Cedric, with Sirius… none had deserved to die but he, Harry, truly did. And no one could fix that. No one could change the past so Harry was doomed to reside in it. What has already happened as happened and he couldn't simply forget about it.

"Why did you come here?" came a gentle voice. Harry blinked and momentarily moved his eyes away from the fire

Lupin. Harry'd forgotten he her there.

Harry numbly heard him move behind his chair and then, out of the corner of his eye, saw his squat down beside him, his hand resting on Harry's knee. The intimate contact stirred something long disregarded inside him and Harry moved his hand up through his hair and then down on to Lupin's frail fingers.

"Why did you come here?" Lupin asked him again imploringly. The question went on unobserved; Harry was silently, stonily relishing the fact that Lupin was the only one who could touch the ice inside him and reach actual human flesh, real human emotion.

"Harry" Lupin whispered. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. When I heard about James and Lily, I felt as though I could never breathe again. That the world, my world, was coming to some horrible, horrible end. But eventually I opened up again."

Lupin had hardly said a word to Harry since he left him at the end of fifth year. Brief nods were their only greetings and departings. They'd never discussed it; they both cared about Sirius equally and their pain created a bond between them that they were both fully aware of.

"No," Harry said slowly. "It's just… it's all my fault. No one thinks so, but it is. I killed Sirius, I killed Cedric, and I killed mum and dad. I didn't use a wand, but it was my mistake that they're all gone. Ron and Hermione and Dumbledore and everyone else, they tell me it wasn't my responsibility but it was. It all was. I come back here because…" Harry didn't really know why he came back to Grimmuald Place. Was it because of the memories?

"Because Sirius was the last bit of life I had. I'm trying to hang on to that."

And for the first time since Sirius' death, Harry breathed, the air rattling in his chest and waking him up. It felt good.

He turned his head to look at Lupin and saw a single tear sliding down her cheek, marking its' path across her pale skin. Harry watched with bated-breath as the solitary drop fell from his chin and hit the ground, making a dark spot among the whitish dust coating the dark wood.

"I miss him, too," Lupin breathed, gazing into the fire, wishing with his eyes to be able to disappear into it. He breathed slowly, as if each word caused him tiring pain. "They were the best friends I ever had: James, Sirius, Lily, and Peter. They were always there for me as a kid. And now look at me. I'm the last one left alive. I guess that proves that the cautious may live safe, but at least they live."

The last remark rung within Harry, and the truth of it dawned on him. He'd always been the one to take the most risks and he always lost the most battles because of it. His recklessness led him into a word of his own, where all that mattered were good and bad choices; the consequences left unnoticed until the end.

Harry and Lupin stared into the fire together, brooding on the past. Lupin was sitting on the floor, his knees folded up to his chest and his head resting against Harry's chair leg like a child. Somehow, Lupin knew Harry needed it, contact with a person who didn't poke or prod at him and his emotions like a science project. Someone who had loved Sirius and James and Lily as much as he had, and could sympathize without feeling sorry for him. And so they sat, not grieving, not mourning, not dwelling. But reflecting on the past, and what as already been lost.

It's been five years since Harry graduated from Hogwarts. It was a bittersweet good-bye; the school was in mourning. The seventh year students were asked to stay one day after the rest of the students for their private graduation. Family members of the graduating class were also allowed to stay, however, so Ginny mainly stayed with the trio the entire time. Harry's morbid state hadn't changed since Sirius' death. Ron and Hermione tried cheering up once sixth year started, but their committed effort only ending it fighting.

Soon, the cheerier fraction of the trio learned to leave Harry off in his own private funeral, rather than try to shake him out of it. He wasn't happy angry, but he was even angrier when attempted to be enlivened. All he did was eat, sleep, and go to class. He'd even quit Quidditch, much to everyone's surprise and dismay. Harry was right well the best player Hogwarts had seen in years. Everyone (except the Slytherins, that is) tried to convince him to re-join, but his somber face and silent response sent him or her away.

Ron and Hermione spoke of him often, out of earshot, of course. They nervously discussed what could be done to save their best friend from spiraling down into his own death, but they couldn't find a way. They confronted Dumbledore for advice and for once in Hogwarts knows when, he was helpless.

"The mourning are often mourned in the end," was all he told them, causing Ron to gulp weakly and Hermione to start crying. Ron and Hermione knew they loved Harry. They knew that they were the only ones he had left, but it was impossible to tell him that. They had no idea what he was going through, but would if he would only tell them. Talk to them like he used to.

Hermione and Ron, now spending so much time alone together, ended up in love. This Harry noticed, but hardly acknowledged. It was simply more abandonment on his part. Ron asked Hermione to marry him in March of seventh year, and she gladly accepted. The wedding was set for December of that year, until life began to spiral more rapidly out of control. Just weeks before seventh years were due to take their N.E.W.T.'s, Ron was killed when a practice bludger went haywire and continuously beat him over the head until he met his death. He was the first student to be killed in a Quidditch accident at Hogwarts for centuries.

At graduation, the Great Hall was decked in the house colors, but black banners hung as well in memorial for the youngest Weasley brother. Hermione was unable to retrain herself and sobbed, tears streaming non-stop down her cheeks, the entire ceremony while Ginny kept a firm arm around her.

Voldermort's whereabouts were still unknown, as well as his actions. The Order of the Phoenix still held strong, led by the aging Dumbledore. There were spies located within Voldermort's inner circle, but when interrogated my Order members, admitted that they hadn't been called to a Death Eater meeting since the incident within the Department of Mysteries. The Order was curious about this, but Dumbledore was not. He advised the members that stalling was a deliberate tactic of the Dark Lords. He was simply waiting for the magical community to let down their guard, and when he was sure it was safe, he would attack.

The Order members were still hesitant about remaining inactive and nervous about Voldermort's held silence, but they held confidence in Dumbledore's assumption. After they graduated, Harry and Hermione were finally old enough to join the Order. They both eagerly accepted the offer, ready to avenge their best friends' death. However, there expectancies were denied. The Order literally had nothing to do but wait for Voldermort to make his first move. Until then, Harry decided to stay at Grimmuald place, where Lupin was currently taking residence. Harry stayed in a guest room, always avoiding the room he and Ron had shared that summer and over that Christmas break. Of the months he spent at the Orders' hidden headquarters, he never approached the room; it held too many memories.

Harry sat there now, before the fire and Lupin at his side, fast asleep. Harry hadn't slept in weeks. He'd have spurts of slumber about twice every other month when he'd sleep soundlessly for a full twenty-four hours or more. But other than that, he'd fast relentlessly on slumber for as long as he could. He suddenly stood up. He looked up at the clock; the hands, glittering like knives in the dim light, read quarter past midnight. The fire was burning low and cast eerie shadows into the corners of the ancient room. Harry looked down at Lupin, whose head was tilted to the side, as if he were trying to rest it on his own shoulder. The man had aged since Harry first met him in his third year; the firelight lit his weary mouth and fine wrinkles. Now in his early forties, Lupin looked in his late fifties. He always seemed older than he really was, but next to Dumbledore, honestly was the wisest person Harry knew. Harry lay a small, grateful blessing over the sleeping man, then turned to go upstairs.

The heads of previous house-elves hung on plaques on the wall lining the stairs. Harry wondered distantly what it was like to be a house-elf; to serve one snobbish family for years, only to know you would be decapitated and hung on a wall for visitors to gawk at. Harry sighed.

He reached the badly lit second-floor landing and he slowly turned to face the door on the right, inwardly surprised he remembered exactly which one it was. He braced himself as he approached it, as though his very death was held behind the aged wood. Harry reached out a hand to the serpent-headed doorknob, and touched it. Dust coated his fingers, and he turned, and pushed. A low creak met his ears and darkness met his eyes as the door opened. Harry pulled out his wand, staring into the din, and whispered the spell. The magical glow illuminated the deserted high-ceilinged bedroom and Harry walked in slowly, looking around reproachfully.

The two four-posters with the steel frames were still at the far end of the room. Two dressers, the desk still sat, unmoved by years of progress. Small puffs of dust rose and fell with each step Harry took over the elegant yet archaic rugs and carpet. Harry had forgotten which bed was his and which was Ron's, but he remembered the anguish filled nights he lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

As Harry approached the window to look out at the street-lit Grimmauld Place, he heard a small shuffle and whipped around, waving his wand in all directions. He saw movement against the wall to his left, and shone his wand on it. The man in the photograph was stirring. Harry remained immobile, his wand light on the rousing man in the painting.

Phineas Nigellus yawned, stretched, and flexed his gloved fingers before speaking to Harry. "Ah, yes. The Potter boy." His voice still as reedy and arrogant as Harry had remembered it.

Harry stared at the painting with hollow eyes, his entire body deathly still, the only life and movement convulsing nervously on one point: his eyes. They danced tensely on Phineas Nigellus, the painting that had tortured him with haughty remarks for all the time he stayed in Grimmuald Place. He remembered the paintings' reaction when he was told about Sirius. He'd left Dumbledore's office immediately, disbelievingly, obviously going to this painting to see if it were true.

"I knew you were residing here. You know I wondered why you never came to visit your old room," Phineas continued, grinning slightly, gazing around at the room. Harry didn't respond. Instead, he turned around and began walking slowly to the door. It was a mistake coming into this room. It was stupid. He should have never done it.

Phineas didn't say anything as Harry left. But as he whispered "Nox" and the light went out, leaving him in darkness again, he heard a hoarse sigh from the picture frame.

Harry shut the door behind him, his hand lingering on the knob as he turned to walk away.

Harry returned downstairs to where Lupin sat still before the fire. Harry took his seat again. The fire had reduced to small embers among the ashes, but Harry didn't bother to relight it. Lupin stirred in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded like "he's gone". His arms made a swift movement as though to grab something. Harry knew exactly what he was dreaming of and wondered if he dreamed of it often.

Harry watched the sunrise the next morning through the cracked windows. Once the gentle rays of light touched Lupin's face, he roused, standing and stretching.

"Breakfast will be ready in five," he told Harry, walking toward the kitchen.

"Anyone coming over today?" Harry asked, standing as well and following Lupin into the next room.

Lupin was at the stove, hovering bacon onto the pan and lighting the fire underneath with his wand. "Tonks, Kingsley, and Hermione are supposed to be coming for lunch," he replied absently, making two glasses of orange juice appear out of thin air.

Just then, as if on cue, the doorbell sounded. "Do you mind getting that?" Lupin said over his shoulder to Harry, trying to stop the bacon burning. Lupin was never much of a cook.

Inwardly thanking Moody for finally getting rid of that screaming picture of Mrs. Black in the hallway last year, Harry started down the hall to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tonks, Harry! Open up!"

Harry hastily unlocked the door and swung it open. Tonks came rushing in, her hair a curly auburn brown and freckles along her nose. But Harry hardly had time to take in her newest appearance.

"Remus back there?" she asked him as he shut the door.

"Yeah."

"Well, come on. I have news from the Ministry!"

Harry's heart skipped a few beats as him and Tonks raced back to the kitchen. Did they have a lead?

When the three of them were seated around the table, armed with slightly burnt bacon, toast, and juice, Tonks began.

"Of course, you remember we had Lucius Malfoy imprisoned in Azkaban once we had proof he was a Death Eater?" she said.

Lupin nodded.

"What do you mean 'had'?" Harry asked.

"Well, he's escaped. He was used all sorts of unidentifiable dark magic to get out past the dementors. We thought he was trying to return to his master, to help return him back to power. Until we found their headquarters, a mansion in Little Hangleton, just west of here. We found Voldermort's body in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Dead. Avada Kedavera."

Harry's mouth went parch dry, and his vocal chords seemed to refuse him. Running his fingers through his hair, his lips parted as though he were about to say something, but couldn't. Finally. He was dead. It was all over, he was gone. He was dead. Forever this time. Lupin had his elbows on the table, head in his hands.

"Did you find Malfoy?" Lupin said, his voice cracking unnaturally with dismay and relief.

Tonks, seemingly uncomfortable by their reactions, shook her head sadly before answering. "No. But we did find a note from him, attached to the ground near where Voldermort lay. If you like, we can Apparate there and you can take a look around…?"

"There are Aurors on the scene, yes?" Lupin asked. Tonks nodded. Lupin looked at Harry. Harry looked at the both of them. They were asking his permission to go. Asking him if he was still too weak to face his archenemy?

"Let's go."

Harry stepped over bits of broken chair as he entered the Riddle house. "Lumos," he whispered, wand in shaking hand. He heard Tonks and Lupin appear outside as well, and then heard them enter. He whipped around at a small squeal and a crack.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tonks exclaimed, Lupin helping her up from a smashed oak table that stood by the door. Harry saw she had tripped over a rise in the runner.

"Who's that?" came a voice from the top of the stairs. Harry looked up and saw there was a door ajar. Light was spilling out from the crack and falling down the stairs before them.

"It's Remus, Tonks, and Harry!" called Lupin. "We're coming up!"

The three of them climbed the stairs, Harry in the lead. Kingsley Shacklebolt was waiting for them at the door, a weary grin on his dark face.

"I had a hunch you'd want to come," he said in his slow, calming voice to Harry, a hand resting firmly on his shoulder. Harry nodded, uncertainly and took a step forward into the room. It was then that he remembered that dream he'd had so long ago. Voldermort and Wormtail, before Voldermort had regained his body, they'd killed that old muggle man. Harry's hands shook at the memory.

There were wizards in the room, taking dust samples, speaking in low voices, crowded around something on the floor. Lost from the world around, Harry took a few steps toward the group of wizards. He was lying there, he knew he was. He wanted to see it, look in the dead face of the man who'd sculpted his live into a living hell. But he was scared. He'd seen so much death already.

Harry suddenly felt a pair of hands fall on his shoulders. Lupin was standing behind him. "You ready?" he said softly. Harry turned his head around to catch a glimpse at Lupin. He was staring at the group of wizards as well. Harry turned around and took a deep breath.

"Yeah."

They went over to the group, who saw them coming and stepped aside to give them a look. Lord Voldermort, exactly how Harry remembered him, skin like bones and a menacing glare. The only difference was the lack of teasing ice that usually resided in those snake-like eyes. After a moment of staring into the deceased face of Lord Voldermort, Harry turned his face away, unable to look any longer.

"Where's the note?" he heard Lupin choke behind him. A dark haired witch stepped aside and gestured to a corner of the room. Floating about shoulder level off the ground was a ripped piece of paper, beheld in a white light. As Harry walked over to take a look, he could see glowing green fingerprints on the sides of the paper.

_I have murdered the Dark Lord. He taught me the darkest of magic of escape from you dunces at the Ministry, and I murdered him. He shall never rise to power again and it is because of me. I am hiding and you will never find me. Whoever comes across this letter, let the magical world know that I, Lucius A. Malfoy, shall be the one true Dark Lord. I shall hold the power and majesty of the magical world and all knees will one day bend to me. _

Harry's eyes closed in disgust at what he just read and again, he looked away. Lucius had murdered his master for the power. Suddenly, the small bit of happiness that was laid in Harry from Voldermort's death, evaporated and a great feeling of uneasiness took its place.

"This isn't over," he said softly. Lupin sighed.

"What'd you mean?" Harry turned around slowly, studying Lupin's face.

"Malfoy was Voldermort's number one follower. If he knows dark magic enough to escape Azkaban, he no doubt can be a threat to us." Harry turned back to the letter. "He's trying to take over, just like Voldermort had. He needs to be found. And stopped."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Lupin asked.

Harry didn't say anything. '…_I, Lucius A. Malfoy, shall be the one true Dark Lord_…' he read, quietly to himself. '…_I am hiding and you will never find me_…'

"We have to figure out where he's hiding," Harry said a bit louder. "We have to learn more about him, his motives." Harry turned around to face Lupin. The older man's face was pale, yet sharp.

"Who was closest to Lucius?" Harry asked him. Lupin gazed at Harry as though not really seeing him.

"His son," he spoke, his voice, unsurprisingly hollow. "Draco Malfoy."

"Where is he?"

"Azkaban. He was a Death Eater. They locked him up as well, even though he hadn't performed as many deaths as the rest."

"He needs to be questioned."

A pause.

"You're volunteering?"

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing over the lifeless form of Lord Voldermort. "Yes."

His old school rival however had been born a Slytherin, raised to be a Slytherin, and of course had ended up a Slytherin. Harry was a Gryffindor. It went without saying that they could never be close. Now, as Harry stood in front of Draco cell in the notorious Azkaban Prison, looking at the form of the old rival, Harry wondered if Draco had ever really meant all those things he said over the years. Harry eyes narrowed as the sinister guards of Azkaban, who didn't seem remotely bothered he was there, opened the cell.

Harry stepped inside, and looked shiftily at the lank body slumped on a filthy mattress. This was certainly a change of scene from the luxurious Malfoy Manor, he thought, looking around then back at Draco. Draco's blonde hair was now a very light brown and instead of having it slicked back as usual, it hung lifelessly over the cold grey eyes that taunted Harry for years. His lips curved into the smirk that Harry knew all too well. He stood.

"So, he finally did it," Draco said. He was shorter than Harry remembered him and his voice didn't have as much danger lurking behind the breaths.

When Harry didn't answer, he continued. "My father finally cracked." Draco looked away casually, down at his fingernails. "He spoke to me of doing it for years; I never thought he'd actually go through with it."

Again, Harry made no reaction. He wasn't here to discuss the weather over tea; he was here to pump this pathetic loser for information. Draco seemed to sense Harry's impatience, so he kept speaking.

"My whole family's been obsessed with this for years, you know that. Killing mud- muggles." Draco was quick to correct himself, leaving Harry to wonder why he cared so suddenly.

"Why?" Harry voiced finally.

Draco's thin eyebrows rose at the question and he stared off at a spot over Harry's shoulder, pondering his answer. "It is simple, really. I was born into a family who all deserved to rot in hell, centuries of pureblooded perfection. They worshipped this man like a god, yet he was a man nonetheless. Only searching for what the rest of us are searching for, somewhere inside us: longevity."

Draco was silent for a moment, leaving Harry to contemplate his answer.

"But Voldermort was obsessed. He had so many horrors in his past--"

"I didn't come to hear Voldermort's life story," Harry cut in, shaking his head. "I came to find information about your father."

The smirk never left Draco's lips. "No," he said. "No, that's not all you want."

A deeper frown etched itself onto Harry's features as Draco took a few slow steps closer to him, his void eyes x-raying Harry.

"The man who shaped and destroyed your life is dead," Draco said softly. Harry kept his stony exterior. "And yet you don't seem too happy?"

"That's because we're not out of danger yet, Malfoy," Harry replied. "The one man who could kill him when no one else could is out there free and we need him found. Then, we can celebrate."

Draco looked at him hard for another solid moment, and then looked away, smiling. "What happened to you?" he asked. "Just because your godfather died, you've been moping around like the world ended. Even in our last years of school together, you even lost interest in fighting me."

"I'm not here to talk about me," Harry said calmly, the tense feelings rising at Sirius' name. "I'm here to talk about your father."

Draco sighed, and turned away again. "Alright." He went back to his cot, Harry following.

"You know what my father said to me? The day we were put in Azkaban?" Harry shrugged.

"You tell me."

"He told me that whatever happens, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He wanted me to serve Voldermort like the rest. I had no idea he was planning to kill him. He didn't tell me anything about it."

Harry's heart sank. "But you said he spoke of it for years…?"

Draco raised a finger to stop him. "I said he spoke of being even more powerful than Voldermort. He spoke of 'holding the power and majesty of the magical world'. He never spoke, to me at least, of killing his master. But I felt no honor towards that monster; he was not a true man. He was a lost wretched soul trying to make some grand name for him. He thought there was nothing worse than death because he could perform it so easily. A way of a coward is by the path he chooses to lead, the path of self destruction."

Draco rose from the bed and moved toward Harry. He closed his eyes and put a hand over his face, then brought it down as though wiping the memories from his mind. "I don't know where my father went," he said hoarsely.

Harry sighed and put a hand to his head. He believed Draco, he believed everything he said. But he had one last question.

"You killed people," Harry told him. "To get yourself landed in here." Draco gave a casual shrug. "Yet still you say you didn't honor Voldermort."

A short chuckle escaped Draco's lips and he shook his head slowly. "You might understand this and you might not being an orphan and all that," he said smoothly and Harry's fists clenched at his sides. Draco continued, his hands deep in his pockets and his head thrown back to look at the ceiling. "But I did it because it made my father proud of me. I wanted to feel, for once in my life--" He glanced down at Harry.

"Forget it," he said. "I told you I didn't know where he was."


	2. Chapter 2

**Comments:**Thank you so much to the two of you that responded. I changed the summary and the pairing is H/D and T/R, two of my three favorite ships ever! (The other is Hermione/Ron, ;) ) I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far. This next chapter is more Tonks/Lupin than anything. H/D will be the prominent storyline; I just added Tonks and Lupin for a bit of color. And hi, Cammy! Thanks for replying! LOVE YA!  
**Disclaimer:**I do not own Harry Potter nor any characters related to it. They all belong to my goddess, JK Rowling.

**The End of It All **

**Chapter 2 Part 1**

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Harry returned to Grimmuald Place in a slight daze. He and Draco had spoke in a completely civil manner to each other. Neither one tried to curse the other into bits, which was a first in all the twelve years they've known each other. Harry thought as he sat in his usual place by the fire, it was probably Azkaban that did this to his old rival. Not only had it weakened his appearance, but also it might have also weakened his soul, his drive, and that that stupid Malfoy ego.

A notepad in hand, he noted on everything he discussed with Draco: that his father was planning on killing Voldermort, but he never plainly came out and told his son. Why didn't he tell him? Didn't he trust him? Or was he just selfish in his plot? Also, he noted Draco's change of attitude towards his family... "A family who all deserves to rot in hell"… Very different from the proud and haughty Draco he remembered.

And the largest thing of all that struck Harry as extremely odd but very important: Unless he was lying, Draco never worshiped Voldermort like the others, even though his father wanted it.

Harry also remembered, near the end of their conversation, Draco was close to letting something slip. Something about making his father proud and finally getting something. But he'd stopped himself and the conversation just in the nick of time. Harry wrote that at the bottom of his page, his handwriting messier than usual. He looked at his notes, satisfied.

Just then, a large disturbance was heard in the hallway and a loud curse. He grinned. He was doing a lot more of that lately. "I'm in here, Tonks," he called, not getting up. The pink haired witch appeared a moment later, looking rather frustrated. She leaned on the wall and looked at him, to trace of the normal friendly smile that usually graced her face, no matter what appearance she happened to take that day.

"How'd the interview with Malfoy go?" she asked. Her voice was a little lower as well. Harry frowned, but chose not to pry. He'd done too much of that in his youth and it never landed him anywhere good.

So he only shrugged. "Pretty well, considering. He was perfectly civil to me and gave me a lot to work on. Here." He handed her the notepad. She took it and her eyes swept over the page. She thrust it back at him.

"That gives us nothing, Harry," she told him, crossing her arms and legs. "All we know from that is that he doesn't know where Lucius is and he had no idea what the plan was. Fat lot of help that'll give us."

Harry stood and looked at her. He was only about an inch taller so he couldn't look down at her. What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like this?

"Sorry it doesn't meet your standards," he said callously, slightly hurt but not letting it show. A small flicker of emotion passed over her face and she whipped around and stormed out. He heard that same commotion again, followed by a loud bang and the front door to the house slamming. Harry went to the hallway to see what she'd done. The umbrella stand stood in smithereens by the door.

Tonks' POV

Remus sent me an owl that morning. I was so glad, I nearly ran to the window when I realized whose owl it was. He told me to come to Diagon Alley and meet him in the Leaky Cauldron at two. It was one now. I had to hurry.

I left my house in a hurry, dressing suggestively but not too sluttish. We'd been dating on and off seriously for a about a year now, keeping everything our romantic little secret. It's been perfect. But he always seemed to break up with me right before the full moon. I understood he wanted to keep me safe, and its not that I resented it, but I always wanted to be there for him during that painful time. I wanted to help ease some of his pain that he now had to suffer through alone since James, Lily and Sirius were gone. Peter never even helped him anyway. The full moon was two days ago, so it was time for him to ask me out again. I couldn't wait.

I saw him clutching a rum at a table I the Leaky Cauldron. It was quite dark here. I wondered why he didn't ask me to somewhere a little better lit. Then I saw the reason when he looked up. His scars were worse than ever. Ever since Snape stopped making his potions, he'd had to suffer his transformations the painful and dangerous way. I sat down opposite him at the tiny table. I reached out and gently touched his face, which was covered with fresh wounds. He winced, but smiled all the same. I smiled back and took my hand away.

"How are you?" he asked me, his voice thick and gritty has though he hadn't used it in years. It tugged sharply at my heart and the corners of my mouth.

"I should be asking you the same thing," I told him softly. Our conversations were usually like this. From smiles, lifted eyebrows, or shifting of eyes, we could communicate without saying a word. And on the rare occasion that we did verbally converse, like now, our voices were quiet and soft. As if we were sharing a secret only we knew.

From over the table and over his mug, he looked at me for a long while and my smile stayed glued to my face. I felt like a clown with a painted-on smile, stuck in an eternal grin of stupid bliss. But then his face changed. From appreciation and love, it became question and despair. Not a very comforting thing on a face as worn as his. Something was wrong here.

My smile evaporated into the sky and rain clouds formed as the wrinkles on his face deepened. What was happening? He was shaking his head, his eyes clouded over. There was something there that shouldn't be. A new understanding of some sort. Something he didn't want to understand with me.

"Voldermort's murder," he began shallowly. "It got me to thinking… I don't want to keep us a secret any more. I'm tired of hiding. I want to go farther with you: to the next step."

My expression brightened. Maybe this wasn't such bad news after all. "But what?" I asked brightly. His words were fulfilling my every dream and he was hanging all these possibilities over my head like bait. And I was going to take it.

But his weak appearance grew stronger, more evident. He wasn't asking me to go to the next level. He was telling me he couldn't. My heart was breaking. "I'm too scarred," he whispered. My heart broke, snapping in two at the double meaning, something I did understand. I knew he had a painful past, why was that so important now? "I don't ever want to hurt you or our children."

That one caught me off guard and I couldn't hide a hopeful smile. "Children," I repeated breathlessly. "You want children?" It was an amazing new thought and my head was suddenly filled with possibilities.

"I want to marry you, Tonks,"

Holy crap.

"But I love you too much to hurt you that way."

You're hurting me now! I wanted to scream at him. And I felt like I might break with the effort of keeping myself together. How could he do this to me? He suffered through one horrible night alone, but he always came back to me. He ALWAYS came back. I couldn't even look at him. I looked down at the table, choking back a dry sob.

"I'm sorry, Tonks." His voice seemed to come from a mile away. We were at opposite sides of a Quidditch field. The understanding between us was gone. "I do still love you." His voice was only an echo, a broken record in my mind.

"Bullshit."

I whispered the word to the table and he seemed rather taken aback that I swore at him. I stood up, pushing my chair back forcefully. He'd said that to me so many times, it couldn't be true anymore. If he could use it as an excuse for leaving me, if had to be a lie. He only said it to calm me down, but he didn't mean it. I stormed out and waited just outside.

He never came for me.

I pumped over that stupid umbrella stand in the hallway and cursed loudly. Usually it was rather funny, but I wasn't in the mood for jokes.

"I'm in here, Tonks," I heard from farther inside. I came into the living room and leaned on the wall and looked at him, frowning deeply. He was always moping around that stupid fire like Sirius would suddenly just jump out of it. The kid needed a reality check. When things were gone, they're really gone.

"How'd the interview with Malfoy go?" I asked. He seemed to notice the change in my voice. Thankfully, he didn't say anything to the effect of "What's wrong?" or "Are you okay?" I hate those questions.

He only shrugged. "Pretty well, considering. He was perfectly civil to me and gave me a lot to work on. Here." He handed me the notepad. I took it and scanned it. It was a bunch of crap about nada.

"That gives us nothing, Harry," I told him, crossing my arms and legs. "All we know from that is that he doesn't know where Lucius is and he had no idea what the plan was. Fat lot of help that'll give us." It was harsh, but it was true.

He stood and looked at me. He was hardly taller than me. Barefoot we'd probably be the same height. He was looking at me oddly and I looked right back.

"Sorry it doesn't meet your standards," he said callously. Not letting the anger pass over my face, I whipped around and stormed out. I wrenched open the door, but it knocked over that dammed stand again. Having had enough, I whipped out my hand and pointed it at the thing. By the time the door slammed behind me, I knew I'd never knock that thing over again.


End file.
